at some point on several of those occasions he would beckoned me into the kitchen, and i would sit with him at their old formica table, the one that has the silver band that goes around the side. he would bring a piece of paper out. point at it. i knew my task. he would dictate to me. a letter he hoped to communicate to a friend. as you can imagine, he is sitting there in his wheelchair, me with my tiny legs stuck to their plastic chairs on a hot summer day. it was a lot of hard work. it was slow, and it could be very difficult. it was challenging, not just for me, -- for him, but me as well.